No one tells you that after loving someone for long enough, your body becomes fluent in them.

 

It remembers things your mind isn’t even thinking about.

 

The weight of a hand.

 

The timing of a hug.

 

The exact way someone reached for you in the middle of the night without ever really waking up.

 

So when I imagine someone new touching me, I don’t feel nervous.

 

I feel… comparative.

 

Will this feel familiar?

 

Will it feel foreign?

 

Will my heart be generous enough to let it be its own thing, or will it immediately begin searching the archives?

 

I hate that.

 

Not because I’m still waiting for Henry.

 

But because whoever comes next deserves to arrive as themselves.

 

Not as a reference point.

 

Not as an experiment.

 

Not as someone unknowingly auditioning against muscle memory.

 

It’s such an unfair thing to ask of another person.

 

To kiss someone while a ghost quietly grades the technique.

 

To hold someone’s hand while another hand is still living somewhere beneath your skin.

 

People say the heart moves on.

 

I think the body is a little slower.

 

It remembers pressure.

 

Temperature.

 

Rhythm.

 

It remembers being known.

 

Maybe that’s why I don’t feel ready.

 

Not because I can’t imagine someone touching me.

 

Because I can’t imagine it not being compared.

 

I hope one day someone’s touch won’t remind me of what I’ve lost.

 

I hope it feels like something I’ve never learned before.:::